


never could

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6487033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there were a lot of things anders never could do. have a life, a love, be <i>open</i> about who he was. </p><p>he <i>never could.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	never could

**Author's Note:**

> my gran has been dead since last saturday and it still hasnt sunk in yet; i dont know what or how to feel so here i am ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> writing about a breakdown that anders _should have gotten_ over karls death instead of some one liner about it?? ? (i do not recall clearly enough about that bit, did that even happen? i vaguely feel like they mentioned it briefly but only as a flirt option??? correct me if im wrong??)
> 
> either way: where is my sad and so so very _tired_ anders who didnt get time to _grieve_ for karl after he had to kill him before handing over maps to a place he absolutely hates to be in?? ???? _where is he_

It’s strange, really, to be back at his clinic.

There is a dull sensation in the back of his mind, the lingering _rage_ of Justice’s indignation at seeing… at having to _witness_ the result of Karl’s Tranquility and his inevitable death. There was no reason for them to do such a thing, yet. _Yet_ , there the evidence was: Karl’s apparently “rebellious” behavior. The behavior that got him branded with a sunburst that was just as burned into the backs of Anders’ eyes as it was against Karl’s forehead.

It is so very, very _unjust_. The word has a visceral reaction in his chest, clenched tight as Justice flares angrily up and Anders is very, very _tired._ He shushes Justice, knows that the templars that came to confront them are mere bloodstains upon the Chantry’s carpets. It’s enough to placate the spirit enough for Anders’ thoughts to be his (theirs?) again. Somewhat.

His hands move without him realizing it, the motions familiar, yet unfamiliar as he counts—one two three _four_ bottles of elfroot potion, they’re down at least three extra—the meager supplies the clinic has. Lirene hovers somewhere behind him, hesitant; she works diligently even through it, and he can hear the calming murmurs of her helping a sick child.

Anders lingers on the incoherent words Lirene speaks, a desperate grab to find some small comfort in them, but it fails. The lull that Lirene’s voice takes on only reminds him of the atonal sound to Karl’s voice. It leaves his lungs winded, as if a Smite had hit him and knocked him to his knees, and Anders frowns as he tucks the potion bottles away in the cabinet.

He shuts the door with a resounding click, just as a distant tolling of twelve bells sound—late, again, it seems—and the quiet murmuring from Lirene and the patient fades out. Anders hears her murmur a goodbye, a promise that she’ll see him in the morning and it hits him all over again.

 _She_ may be able to see Anders again, but he won’t get that chance with Karl.

It hurts.

Clenching his fists tightly, he hardly notices the sensation of ragged nails against flesh, and Anders grits his teeth against the already chapped skin of his lips. He barely notices it, the sensation dull and empty, and it’s too much like the entire _idea_ of Tranquility. Justice flares, blue-bright lyrium colored veins stretching across his skin, and Anders almost lets him go; the anger, the _hurt_ pent up like a caged animal.

He doesn’t.

Instead he shoves the feelings down, tucks them neatly away in the back of his mind, and makes his way to the chest where the larger supplies they used were hidden away. He pulls the chest open, peering in at the dwindling supplies with a concerned frown. They’ll need more bandages, along with some (hopefully) better tools. He _knows_ he’ll be dragging the bottom of his mana pool in the morning, and he can’t bring himself to protest that plan. He always _did_ scrape by, nothing in return would suffice enough for him than seeing a patient he helped, _live_.

(lyrium potions to come along with the patients he sees _would_ be nice, but the disapproval from justice nixes that want lightning quick.)

 _Hawke should be by soon_ , he thinks and the thought is exhausting already. He _knows_ the other will have questions, demand answers from Anders—and Justice, he adds mentally, much to the spirit’s displeasure—except. He doesn’t want to _see him_. Doesn’t want the reminder that there was, yet another person who was close to Anders, a liability. Distraction. Something that the templars would most definitely take advantage of, like they did... like how they...

The thought grows dark in the back of his mind as he stares through his lashes at the trembling in his hands, breath catching on an almost-sob. He can't think of that, not now, not ever again. He clenches his fists again, relishes in the way his nails dig into the skin, and maybe somehow he'll be _okay_. He doubts it, but he can damn well try to pretend things would be. Justice flares up at the thought, disapproval and Anders wonders how long it would take to absolutely run himself ragged so he didn't have to _think_ , only heal.

Anders almost, _almost_ laughs at the sound of the door opening. Of _course_ it would be now that a wayward bar fight got out of hand—despite the fact he _knows_ Lirene turned the lanterns out, he’ll take whoever comes to his doorstep, won’t turn them away—and someone needed to have bits of sticky ale-covered glass dug from their skin as they drunkenly retell their feat of supposed glory. He turns, a frown on his face as he starts to order them to a free cot but—

His voice catches in his throat at the sight of _Hawke._

Well then. Looks like he was going to be busy answering questions as to _why_ he pretty much exploded the templars in the Chantry from the inside out to the other mage. Or perhaps the how, there were plenty of reasons as to _why_ he (Justice?) did that, but not now. Maker, _not now_. He doesn't think he can get a proper voice _started_ , let alone explain how things came to be, nor how Justice exists inside of him as much as Anders exists right at the same time. An explanation he knew he would eventually have to give, but not this soon.  

“Hawke… I—” the door closes quietly behind the other mage, near silent as the other approaches Anders, and the blond’s words choke off in a strangled, confused sound. He can tell by the _look_ on the other’s face that there was no time for chit-chat, yet… there was something _else_ in his eyes. Something that felt like Hawke ripped open his chest with a well-placed stonefist spell, and didn’t waste time in taking out his organs.

The thought almost makes Anders want to lurch over and lose what meager food was left in his stomach, and he, thankfully, _doesn’t_. Hawke is closer now, and it startles him when Hawke stops in front of him—Anders doesn’t recall _when_ he managed to get so _close_. His hands cross over his chest as he looks the blond with that same look in his eye that leaves Anders’ chest aching again.

It builds, the pressure in his chest and behind his eyes, and Anders will _not_ do this. Not in front of Hawke. He doesn’t have the damned _time_ for grieving, better use the time he would have had sniveling over Karl rather than preparing himself mentally for the inevitable Deep Roads expedition he’ll be dragged along to.

“I’ll… I’ll tell you _everything_ , okay—just… I don’t,” Anders’ mouth moves, but he can’t really hear what he’s saying, but the look on Hawke’s face tells it all. He’s going to get a lecture, a reprimand at how reckless he was, how he _lied_ to Hawke and Justice’s anger flares all over again and he _can’t do this_ —

“It’s _okay_ , Anders.”

The voice is soothing, almost comforting in its assurances, and Anders snaps his head up to look at the other mage. There’s that same look on his face, and his arms aren’t crossed over his chest; they’re closer, moving towards him and he _knows_ there’s going to be some sort of retribution for this, for the aching in his chest that chokes and squeezes every last bit of life from him and Anders doesn’t know how to _respond._

It’s warm, in Hawke’s ( _Hawke’s_ ?) hug, and Anders blinks through blurry lashes, the aching in his chest overwhelming as his breath catches. It isn’t a punishment. It isn’t anything that his adrenaline-numbed mind could come up with, and it’s… _terrifying_. Anders breathes in the scent of something that is distinctly _Hawke_ despite the length of time he’s known the other mage, and a choked laugh escapes. Cracks more into a sob, and there’s so much warmth coming from Hawke that he doesn’t know how to _react_.

“It’s okay to grieve him,” Hawke’s voice is muted by the sound of Anders’ blood rushing in his veins, in the echoing of the not-right sound of Karl’s voice and the too-right, too-panicked sound of _Karl_ , and Hawke, _oh Hawke_ , is such a strange strange man. “You’re allowed to, you were close, right?”

Those three words, _you were close_ , puncture something in his chest that leaves Anders clutching desperately at the other man holding him as his shoulders _shake._  The sobs are muffled in furs and the well-worn in fabric of Hawke’s robes, and _Maker_ it was unfair. He was going to _save Karl_ , get him away from that forsaken place and they could maybe, _maybe_ have peace.

The sobs hurt, and Hawke stands there—doesn’t move, doesn’t say _anything_ , and the weight and warmth from the male is anchor enough—as Anders actually lets himself _be_. Lets himself cry, _grieve_ , for his lost friend.

He never _could_ before.


End file.
